


Death of Innocence (It Was Long Gone Anyway.)

by CescaLR



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Blood, Gen, Multi, Nogitsune Effects, Not Beta Read, Other: See Story Notes, POV Male Character, POV Stiles, POV Third Person, Post V-Day, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 05 AU, Violence, for Kingsman and Teen Wolf respectively, it's V-Day what were you expecting puppies and rainbows?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: V-Day. The day wherein the world went crazy, and a bunch of people died.Also, the supernatural. Also...Beacon Hills.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure on what else to tag. Sorry. Feel free if I missed any to tell me so.

Everything had gone to hell in about a day.

The dread doctors, the Beast, the Desert Wolf and all of that had been dealt with, as much as the pack were able to.

Well. As much as the pack, minus Stiles and Malia who were dealing with the Desert Wolf, were able to.

Actually, let’s just be more specific. Lydia, Parrish, Liam and his girlfriend (who was never really part of the pack, in all honesty) dealt with the Beast, who was Mason… at least, as far as Stiles knows, having not been there. Anyway, Lydia screamed Mason’s name, and some other stuff went down, and the guy was replaced by some old dude (Sebastian, Stiles thinks; he could very well be wrong though) who’d been friends with the Docs before they were, well, _the doctors,_ so that’s lovely.

People hell bent on doing whatever is necessary to bring their friend back, even if it’s to see him only once more before they themselves go.

It’s beautiful. Truly, it brings a figurative tear to his eye.

Scott – Stiles still doesn’t know what or where Scott was, or anything. His dad was still in hospital; they were keeping an eye on the man, just in case (and as far as Stiles is concerned, that was a good thing). So it was Malia, Braeden and himself left to deal with the Desert Wolf.

In the end, she died. Good riddance, the three of them had thought.

After the two actually decided to remove the _fucking massive shard of glass_ from his chest.

Whilst rolling their eyes and standing around for a minute. For real, Stiles has _the **best**_ friends; no kidding.

Anyway, aside from the fact that there was literally no bleeding (which was weird, but Malia just passed it off as his usual ridiculous amount of layers saving his life for once and he’d had no reason to correct her unless he wanted questions) it was all good.

Mason was back by then, Stiles thinks. So was Scott. He wouldn’t know; the fucking horrid shit that went down about a half hour later left no real room for questioning.

So yes. Everything went to shit, to hell in a fucking massive-ass handbasket, and Stiles figures he should actually extrapolate on what that means rather than just stall for so long he’ll never get any of it across.

One day(ish) is a long time. When you’re one of only about a quarter of your town left after a particularly brutal bloodbath, it seems like even longer.

Especially when you’re the only one, aside from the weres, that’s injuries are mainly superficial.

The last one was a bitch though; gave him a dislocated arm. But one bash against a wall and it was right as rain again, so in the end that turned out as mainly superficial as well.

Some of the pack survived.

Not enough, however. Stiles stares at them in the line in front; sees Malia shaking slightly and Scott blank-faced, sees Parrish try not to break down as he clutches to –

To –

_To –_

Stiles blinks. It’s his turn.

_V-Day Description Form._

_Name:_

_Age:_

_Kills:_

_Injuries:_

_Bulleted description of day:_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_Space continues onto next page._

Stiles swallowed. Hard. The woman at the desk was nothing if not blank faced. She was a cop, he registered. Her badge was flecked with blood, her arm was in a cast and there was a bloody handprint on her shirt.

Stiles didn’t mention it. He picked up the pen.

For a moment, Stiles hesitated. But, he figured – now wasn’t the time to hide behind a nickname.

_V-Day Description Form._

_Name:  Mieczysław Stilinski_

_Age: eighteen_

_Kills:_

Stiles paused. His hand shook more than he’d like to admit, ever, and he was tapping, frantic and without rhythm onto the table.

He already knew he’d count Donovan. Just – in case. So that was _one._

It wasn’t the only one.

* * *

 

_It was frightfully easy to get them there. Herd the supernaturals to the school, then trap them inside with mountain ash._

_It’s not like he’d forgotten that little trick of his. Unfortunate he’d always been too **scared** of himself to ever use it._

_Pity. Stiles chuckled. Everything would have gone so much **better** if he hadn’t._

_If he had truly just…_

_Let go._

_He let the last trickle of mountain ash fall through his fingers. Stiles was fairly confident – but not overly so – that the creatures of the town (minus his pack… well. Mostly) were too busy taking chunks out of one another to even try and escape._

_Stiles heard footsteps. He slowly lowered his right hand onto the hilt of the wrench he’d taken from the Mechanics._

**_Oh,_ ** _how lucky he’d been that he was driving Roscoe when It fell upon them. Stiles certainly wouldn’t have been prepared enough to survive, if he hadn’t._

_He’d already killed five. But running people over, as satisfying as the knowledge of their deaths may be, was simply far too impersonal._

_And definitely not practical. At least now, the things trying to harm and hurt those (few) he cares for will be dead come dawn._

_Stiles turned his head, slowly. Looked back over his shoulder, and was the least bit surprised to see the chimera there, alive and well._

_Due to advanced healing, of course. The man had blood on him; a mixture of his own and others’, Stiles could feel it._

_Stiles didn’t much care what the self-absorbed sociopath was saying. The other young adult talked too much at any rate._

_Stiles forwent the wrench for slamming the chimera against the wall. Theo’s head made a satisfying crunch as it connected with the wall._

_He couldn’t have that. It was no fun if they went unconscious._

_Stiles grabbed the Taser he’d pilfered from a dead cop, and turned it up to full power._

_“Rise and shine, bastard.” He muttered, activating it, and dropping the other onto the ground._

_Stiles followed the movement with his head; eerily reminiscent of when he’d watched Oliver falling to the floor._

_Now **that** was satisfying. You don’t mess with what is his._

_Stiles was itching to punch this asshole in the face, but he could be patient. Usually._

_Plans are to be enacted, he reminded himself._

_Still…_

_Stiles drove a kick to the teens side. He’s not dead yet; Stiles can hear his heartbeat._

_Wake up, fucker. Stiles thought. Kicked him again._

_Zapped him again. For good measure. This time, caught off guard, the teen screamed._

_Stiles smirked. The corners of his mouth turned down._

**_Finally._ **

* * *

 

Stiles sucked in a breath.

“Kid.” The lady said sharply, and _oh,_ if only she knew.

Stiles looked up regardless, schooled his features. “Yes?” He responded pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just been lost in memories.

Her eyes softened. She was a local cop; everyone knew the Sheriff’s kid.

The _sweet, not-so-innocent, well-meaning, **kind,** _ Sheriff’s kid.

“Stiles.” She said. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name.

Shakily, he wrote down the number.

* * *

 

_Stiles wiped his hand on his trousers. Grimacing, he was suddenly grateful for the luck that meant he was wearing those red ones that day._

_“Now that’s dealt with.” Stiles said, unafraid to be heard and – and._

_Stiles frowned. You’d think he’d be satisfied by now… after all, he’d hated Theo. Taken his sweet time._

_But…_

_Stiles sighed. The only reason it had worked in his favour was because he’d had the element of surprise. And that Theo was predictable._

_And, predictably, Stiles couldn’t care less about him, either way._

_If he were in his right mind (though he is enough to know he’s not) Stiles would worry that his current bloodlust isn’t sated._

_If anything –_

_It’s **worse**._

Stiles wrote down the number.

From his peripheral vision, the lady paled. He didn’t need sight to hear her gasp, however.

* * *

 

_Stiles smiled at his handiwork. Traps at all exits, dotted throughout corridors, dangerous to everyone of every type, even if his more specific ones were geared towards werewolves._

_After all, he knows them second best._

_Stiles blinked._

_Wait – second?_

_Stiles rolled his head, shifted; he felt antsy, and he had no Adderall, he’d missed his prescription the last day or so._

_No Xanax or equivalent, either. Stiles was well and truly off his meds._

_Not that it should matter. Stiles has never felt less anxious in his life than he does now._

_He feels…_

_Powerful. Fearless._

_In control._

_Stiles licks his lips and finishes the cocktails._

_Phase two is in motion._

* * *

 

Stiles stares at the number, and the line behind him shifts.

It’s not quite right, he thinks. There should be more, he knows.

He doesn’t want to count _them,_ though.

Shakily, stiles crossed out the number. He almost feels bad when the lady relaxes.

He writes a higher one, and thinks that she might faint.

(Technically, stiles didn’t kill all of them personally. But he did trap them all in a school and ‘force’ them to fight amongst themselves, set up traps from which many died, and in general was a – a void-like douchebag, though that seems too light a name to call it.)

* * *

 

_Stiles basked in the Chaos he’d caused, as he walked along blocked off corridors. (and wasn’t it a pain in the ass to get all this set up whilst these assholes were in here. At least all the stuff he’d needed hadn’t been taken from the basement in the months since They were the Bad Guy. However, he’d still had to whack a few over the head. Electrocute one particularly persistent motherfucker. That Jock’d been a stereotypical asshole anyhow. Crush the skull of a lady what tried to take a chunk out of his neck._

_They didn’t get back up. Any of them.)_

_Stiles smiled when he heard them. He’d only heard Scotty feral once or twice, but he’d know his friend anywhere regardless._

_But even It couldn’t change the nature of a True Alpha too much._

_And so…_

_One. Two. Three._

_Stiles opened the door to the library, dropped a mountain ash circle around himself._

_Stiles watched as Liam, the runt and newest member of their little clique, try and slice up Scott into little ribbons._

_He failed, however. Because, like the supermoon, It affected them **just** enough. And Scott got the upper hand._

_Liam was dead seconds after his mistake. Stiles leaned against the door frame._

_With a strong enough will, even a true alpha can’t get past a ‘druid’s’ ash barrier._

_Stiles had always preferred ‘Darach’. It just sounds cooler._

_Scott ran at him, but with a single thought from Stiles the barrier strengthened, and his bestest buddy was launched backwards through the air; he crashed into a table and broke it._

_Stiles winced. Ouch._

_“You okay?” Stiles asked. There was a time when he’d asked that and hadn’t meant it previously, Stiles knows._

_He doesn’t give a fuck._

_Scotty growled. Flashed red eyes._

_Stiles smirked._

_“Can’t have that now, Scotty. No when this is going so well.” Stiles scolded him. “I’m doin’ this for **us,** for our **pack,** Scott, you gotta get me, okay?” Stiles told him, any question rhetorical._

_It’s not like Scott ever knew what was best, anyway. Stiles told himself. Repeatedly._

_“You’re gonna sit tight in here, dude. I’ll be right back, alright? If you wanna fight, or protect or whatever, I’ll let ya. Just don’t get in my way, okay Scotty?” Stiles asked. This time, for real._

_Stiles could see the bloodlust in those red eyes._

_Stiles grinned, with sharp edges and deep shadows._

_“Good.” He said. The tone Stiles used was ominous._

* * *

 

_V-Day Description Form._

_Name:  Mieczysław Stilinski_

_Age: eighteen_

_Kills: thirty one._

Stiles looked up from the form. The lady took pity on him. “Step this way, Stiles.” She said, all quiet-like.

Stiles was having none of that.

“What do – where’ll you take me?”

She looked pityingly at him.

“A lot of people died today.” She said, quietly. Stiles could see his friends eavesdropping.

“I know that.” He snapped back, angry all over again.

These days, that’s all he ever seems to be.

(He thinks it’s the _mischief_ inside him. The Nogitsune. A last laugh; a parting ‘gift’.

Truthfully, he doesn’t feel guilt for killing. He feels guilt for not feeling it, so no –

He only ever feels angry.

And thirty-one people…

Stiles is surprised he hasn’t exploded yet.)

Her eyes are still pitying. Stiles wonders if V-Day has any lasting effects, because he feels even more angry at that than he usually would.

Stiles doesn’t close his eyes in order to calm down. Since that would have the opposite effect entirely.

Stiles looks down. Counts his fingers.

Breathes.

The lady lets him.

* * *

 

_With Scotty out of the way and none the wiser (though that might be thanks to the handy imagining Stiles had been doing the entire time) Stiles moved through the building unseen, keeping to the shadows (literally) and popping out at opportune moments to grab an unsuspecting person and –_

_Well. Plain out murder them. See this, Stiles has graduated from accidental manslaughter in self-defence (how boring) to actual murder._

_Honestly. No wonder the Nogitsune chose him; when Stiles wants to, he can just **do** **this,** he’s **good** at it. _

_Funny. He’s good at solving crimes and murder._

_Some might find that worrying._

_Stiles?_

_Is having **fun.**_

_He thinks the Nogitsune was right; when it described Them as **insatiable.**_

* * *

 

Ten.

Well, Stiles thinks.

Fuck. There goes that hope, straight out the window, Stiles complains mentally, in a fairly morose manner.

Her eyes are nothing if not pitying. Stiles would ask for another cop if that wouldn’t be classed as rude.

“Everyone’s to be separated.” She says, though her nose wrinkles up in obvious derision.

Stiles agrees. That’s a terrible idea.

“Why? For what reason?” He demands.

“Supernaturals, humans, large scale kills and small – everyone’s in separate categories.” She explains. “Some have been…” She pauses. “…Chosen.” The lady continues carefully, “For a specific reason. Agencies all around the world _– government_ agencies have lost a _lot_ of people.” She sighs. “England most of all. I have to put in a recommendation for, well.” She stops hesitant.

Stiles silently urges her to go on, as his fingers tap an uneven rhythm on his leg. Her eyes flick to it (perhaps worried?) before moving on.

“Anyone whose kill count is above twenty-eight.” She pauses. “Including.”

Stiles’ breath rushes out.

Well fuck, he thinks.

She nods, and doesn’t reprimand him, and Stiles realises he said that out loud.

“What – what about Scott, Malia?” Stiles asked, rushed. “I – I can’t –”

The lady’s face is sad, and Stiles stops.

“Everyone’s being separated.” She responds again, parrots, and he wants _to rip her heart out._

Stiles blinks, stumbles backwards, and suddenly feels the explicable urge to vomit.

Because he really does not want that. At all.

“Kid?” She asks, concern lacing her tone.

The paranoid little voice in the back of his head says its fake.

Stiles straightens up, so fast another might have gotten whiplash. “What?” He demands.

“You look a little green.” She says. “Need a bucket?”

Oh, of course not, Stiles thinks sarcastically. I didn’t just kill thirty one people and think about ripping your heart out without wanting to vomit even a little. (He adds on – able to be truthful in his own mind.)

“I’m fine.” He responds.

Stiles both wants and doesn’t want a confrontation with his friends. He thinks they might need one, but the second he looks at Scott the man flinches.

Stiles snaps his head back to the lady.

“Get me out of here.” He says, tired.

She grimaces. He knows what she’s feeling, and he feels the same way.

The lady inclines her head, and Stiles goes in front. She probably wants to keep an eye on him, so he won’t run away.

Stiles is fine with this. He’s not sure he wouldn’t. But one thing;

“My jeep.” He says. “Can – I mean?”

She sighs. “It’s probably covered in blood, Stiles. Been crashed or something.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. She’s not. My Jeep’ll be fine; you’ll see.”

With a sigh, knowing Stiles enough to know he won’t relent on this, she tells him to get into the back of the cruiser and starts driving.

It doesn’t take long to find Roscoe. And as Stiles said, the jeep was shiny and clean and _wonderful._

Stiles got out, took out his keys and realised his hands were still bloodstained.

None of it was fresh, he could tell. Except for a few bits.

Knowing he should be more bothered but not much caring, Stiles shrugged and unlocked his jeep.

“Where to?” Stiles asked.

She looked dubious. “Follow me.” The cop said, and Stiles knows she thinks he’ll bolt.

“Don’t worry. I can do that, at least.” Stiles reassures her, or hopes he does, before getting into the car and starting the ignition.

(He’d had a bit of time to kill, after most everyone was dead and he’d gotten _bored._ Meaning, of course, he’d somehow fixed his car enough for it to run.)

(Well. He hadn’t. The kidnapped mechanic had. After being drugged up on anti-psychotics. Stiles wasn’t even sure that’d work, at the time, but it had. Kind of.

He’d still had to kill the man. Stiles hates why he did it. Since he hadn’t _had to,_ not even in the slightest.)

The lady nods to herself, gets in the car, and drives.

Stiles follows.

* * *

 

The two arrive at the makeshift base faster than Stiles had thought they would.

He hates that they’re set up in the old Hale house, but he can understand why. It’s got a good, defendable position.

Stiles can respect pragmatism, at the very least.

The cop lady gets out and walks up to him.

“This is as far as I go.” She says. “You’ll be speaking to the representatives, just ask the first person you see for directions to the Kingsmen area. They’ll tell ya, even if they don’t believe you’re material.” She shrugged.

“I’ve got to go back to the form submission place. You’ll fill that next bit in later; they’ll want to evaluate you first.” She nodded to him, and left before he could give a response.

Stiles sighed, turned off the jeep, got out and locked it.

He walked up to the door, and knocked.

A man answered; short-ish and balding, also pale from spending a large amount of time indoors.

Stiles didn’t really care about this guy’s story, he wasn’t here for friends.

He was here to leave them behind. For their own safety and peace of mind.

 “Kingsmen?” He asks, shortly. The man grunts. Let’s Stiles in. “Second door on the left.” He says, and Stiles nods in thanks.

Stiles follows the instructions, and knocks on the wooden door frame; the ‘door’ is more a sheet they hung up for privacy reasons.

“Come in.” A man’s voice says.

It sounds dull, and monotone, and _oh no_ does it sound like Harris.

It’s bad when he thinks of that as ‘good times’, isn’t it?

Stiles pushes the glorified curtain aside and steps into the makeshift office.

“Sit.” The man says; he’s seemingly mid-forties, with ginger-ish hair and a moustache. The man seems a little portly for someone in field work; he’s obviously in a desk job.

Stiles sits. The man scowls at him.

“Form?” He asks. Stiles hands his over.

The man looks – for a second – intrigued by the number, then looks up and dismisses it.

“Well, they are understaffed over there.” He sighs. “Human, or supernatural?”

Stiles doesn’t reply.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Talkative, ain’t cha?”

Stiles snorts. “Well, I’m sorry if I seem as if I could possibly be in a minute amount of shock; it seems to have fried my ability to make conversation with utter and complete strangers. I wonder why; maybe it’s because I was so hell-bent on killing them a couple hours ago?” Stiles replies, sarcastic.

The man sighs. “Thirty one?” He asks.

“School.” Stiles replies. “Trapped ‘em inside. Added a bunch of traps and let them finish most each other off. Smashed a few heads in and electrocuted a bunch.”

Stiles blinked a few times.

“Got my best friend to murder this other kid we know. Good times.”

Stiles chuckled mirthlessly.

“Oh! And I tortured a sociopath. And a fair few others.” He added on, pretending to have forgotten. “There was that one guy I gutted. Literally. Stabbed him with a katana and removed his intestines. Dunno _why._ Just did.”

Stiles looked back to the man.

“I guess it’s because I _could,_ huh?”

The man looked unfazed.

“You aren’t the only one.”

“They were supernaturals.” Stiles replies. “Most of em. Many people I’d known my whole life, mixed in. I helped murder my ex-‘s serial killing mother, and a few other bits and pieces.”

Now, the man looked interested.

“Helped?” He asked.

Stiles looked him dead on.

“Beacon Hills was already a shit-show before V-Day. It just made it worse.”

The man pursed his lips. “I suppose they’ll accept you if you add on a bit of your supernatural resume. They really want some people with experience.” He mused.

Stiles smirked. (The corners of his lips pulled down.)

“That’s not gonna be hard.”

* * *

 

“A baseball bat?” One of the other candidates asked, disbelieving.

“Yeah.” Stiles replied. He was actually kind of annoyed by all of this; compared to everything else that he’d survived, that was wholly unimpressive.

“You smashed a baseball bat on the head of a… merged twin alpha were...wolf?” He repeated.

Stiles had noticed a lack of ladies. He figures they were just in another room or something.

This was confirmed when a middle aged (were they all middle aged?) woman, with glasses and a greying blonde ponytail and a sharp suit (they all wore suits; stiles _really_ hoped he wouldn’t have to) strode in and interrupted the conversation.

Stiles was glad. It meant he wouldn’t have to answer the same questions over and over and over again.

The girl she’d brought in with her walked in.

And then Malia was unceremoniously shoved into the room.

Stiles grimaced. Now was not the time for reunions.

He was… more than a little surprised that the instant she registered his presence that she practically tackled him in a hug, but he also wasn’t.

There was only so much she could take. Countless murders were not in the equation _at all._

“Malia.” He murmured. “Lia, Mal, come on.” He soothed. She shook, her face buried in his hoodie’s shoulder (and why had he worn this one anyway; the last time had actually, literally been the nogitsune. Maybe that was why, truthfully. The only difference in outfit was the red trousers… and, funnily enough, bad shit tended to go down when he wore those as well.) and he felt the wetness of tears.

For the first time since the end of It, Stiles felt his eyes prick a little, and so he buried his face in her hair, just to hide that, just in case.

Stiles murmured to her, and within a minute they’d gathered themselves perfectly; were as if that had never happened.

“You are… acquainted?” The woman asked, clipped.

“Yeah.” Malia replied. She scowled at the retreating back of the person who’d brought her.

“You three,” The woman explained, moving on. She gestured to Malia, the annoying guy, and Stiles himself. “Shall be joining me and returning – ah, going to England to join Kingsmen.” She informed them. “And you.” She pointed at the girl. “Shall stay here and wait for the American Secret Service representative to collect you.”

The girl scowled. Stiles figured it was because she was about to join an organisation whose acronym spelled ASS.

“Your…” The woman turned her nose up in distaste as she addressed Stiles, “ _Car,”_ The word seemed to physically harm the woman. Stiles and Malia shared a glance, and the other guy seemed to be having trouble stifling laughter – “Shall be there upon our arrival.” The lady finished.

“Let’s depart.” She looked sharply at each of them.

“And don’t even _try_ to run away.” She added.

* * *

 

Like an idiot, the third kid tried to run away.

There was a bang, and Stiles didn’t flinch; just watched detachedly as the teen fell to the floor.

The woman huffed and adjusted her glasses. Malia grimaced, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Well.” The lady – Miss. Post, Stiles knows now – commented. “Now you know the consequences.”

Stiles could see the shooter, could _hear_ his heartbeat. (He shouldn’t be able to do that.)

Though that _was_ the window everyone spied out of in that house either way. Seriously, could they have been more predictable?

Miss Post turned around on her heel and strode on. The two remaining (Himself and Malia) followed.

* * *

 

The flight to England hadn’t been that exciting. In fact, it had been rather dull, all things considered. Stiles hadn’t even had to fill out his V-Day form. Neither had Malia.

Stiles didn’t much care why. He just didn’t want to relive those memoires. Not if he could help it.

So, during the flight, Evelyn Post gave them a debrief on what to expect, since the videos were all kaput now; the old Arthur having been a traitor and his death an understandable inside job (by the new Galahad). The old Merlin was taking a temporary position as the new Arthur; him being the only one of high enough ranking to survive the whole V-Day ordeal.

Stiles and Malia shared a glance, and a grimace. That didn’t bode well.

“It was an inside job.” Post said, yet again. “We were doomed from the start; just one got through the cracks and bam!” She slammed a hand on the arm rest, but neither of them reacted. She looked a little pleased. “We were all as good as dead.”

There was a pause.

“Have you graduated high school, or at least primary?” She asked of them.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Senior year.” He said.

“I lived as a coyote for nine years.” Malia replied. “I recently re-joined high school in my senior year.”

Post looked impressed. Damn right she should; cramming nine years of education into months is impressive. At least, Stiles thinks so.

“As a coyote?” Post asks. “So it’s true you’re of the supernatural kind, then?”

Malia flashed blue eyes. “Yes.” She replied.

“And you?” Post asked Stiles.

“God damn it.” He muttered. Post raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been asked that question so many times…” Stiles extrapolated, annoyed.

“Ah.” Post nodded. “And?” She pressed on.

Malia huffed. “Isn’t it obvious? He doesn’t know.” Stiles’ wonderful friend rolled her eyes.

“Yes. That.” Stiles pointed at Malia. “What she said.”

They both snorted. Not really the time, but right now anything seems funny; if only because of how ridiculous the situation.

Post sighed.

_Teenagers._ Stiles smirked, and for fucking once it was a normal one.

(Wait, how had he known that?)

She nodded to herself. “Alright then. I suppose that’s it. You might as well get some sleep in, lord knows we all need it.”

Post opened her bag and handed Stiles a bottle of pills.

“Here. Sleeping tablets. It’ll help.”

Post got up, and walked off, sat at the other end before downing her own tablet.

Stiles handed four to Malia. Supernatural tolerance, and all that.

Stiles took two. Gained tolerance, and all that.

(It took seconds for them both to be out like lights.)

* * *

 

Stiles hates his mindspace.

The large, endless, white, practically empty room that’s only defining feature are the columns and the fucking Nemeton.

Now, this was boring.

Stiles had had his quota for strange and horrible and incredibly unhelpful for pretty much all his lifetime… set quite high. But boredom is something that quite obviously for well-known reasons is something that comes far too often.

Stiles had only been sitting on the stump for less than a minute and he was already bored.

Why was he here anyway?

Stiles looked around.

He was alone.

Stiles looked down, and saw the go table still there, the pieces still scattered.

Stiles picked one up, experimentally, and the rest appeared as they were before he’d thrown them off.

Shrugging, Stiles made a move.

It’s something to pass the time, right?

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t realise he’d sleep-attacked the person trying to wake him, honestly.

“Stiles.” Malia said, softly, “Come on, shh, Stiles, wake up.” Stiles blinked. Looked at Malia, then realised he was choking Miss Post.

“Oh.” He said. Stiles let go, stood up.

Brushed himself off.

(None of them had gotten cleaned up yet. There was still blood on their hands. Stiles registered this, then disregarded it.)

(Blood was pretty much everywhere on all of them, anyway.)

Miss Post stood up, tried to be as dignified as possible. He saw her Taser had been discharged, and realised he hadn’t felt it.

(He felt better than before, actually. That… was odd.)

Stiles awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.

“Sorry.” He said, belatedly. “That’s – never happened, before.”

Malia nodded. Bless her.

Post sighed. “Never mind that, no harm done. We’re here.” She replied, then informed them.

The three left the private jet.

Stepped foot, in two of their cases, for the first time, in England.

* * *

 

Stiles practically hugged his Jeep’s steering wheel once he’d been allowed inside it.

He wasn’t allowed to drive it, however. Apparently, the wheel was on the wrong side or something.

Bah. Roscoe was perfect. And in England.

(God, Stiles – Stiles hopes his Dad… survived.)

Stiles opens the glove compartment – and there it is.

The wrench. Still there, as he remembers. So the jeep wasn’t messed with, looks like.

Stiles is grateful for that, at least.

Sighing, Stiles puts the keys on the dash and gets out of the car, dropping none to gracefully and slamming the door without locking it.

“Keys?” Post inquired. “On the dash.” He responded.

She nodded. “We shall find you a England-appropriate replacement; but don’t worry. You can use… _‘Roscoe’_ in certain situations.”

Malia shook her head. Stiles grinned.

“So long as it’s a jeep, that’s fine by me. Also; manual.”

Post nodded. “We wouldn’t want you crashing from an unfamiliar car, ah, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles nodded. Malia grimaced, and he patted her shoulder.

(He got why she’d hate thinking about that.)

“Well.” Post broke the silence. “Let’s get you to the headquarters.”

Stiles grinned. Malia couldn’t help but grin back.

* * *

 

“Tailors.” Stiles said, flatly. “I don’t wear suits.”

Malia glanced at Post and grimaced. “No thanks.” She agreed. “Strange place for a headquarters.”

“Nonsense.” Post replied, airily. “Finest establishment there ever was, if I do say so myself.” She nodded to the door. “Well?”

Stiles took the unspoken instruction (as did Malia) and went inside.

Post walked over to a dressing room.

“We’ll get you outfitted later on, for now I may as well take you to meet the team. We’re rather short on staff as of late for… obvious reasons.”

Stiles grimaced, nodded. Malia sighed.

The two entered the dressing room at Post’s indication, and waited as she pressed her hand to the mirror.

It was a lift.

Neither of them were surprised.

“You know,” Post commented, amused, “Most new recruits are awed by this part.”

Malia scoffed. Stiles agreed.

“But then, I suppose you two aren’t most recruits.” Post allowed.

When they arrived, Post guided them to the train.

“It won’t be hard to find.” She assured them. “Just go where the only people are.”

At their looks, Post extrapolated; “I’m not coming; I have to stay for the other new ones. Just wander around, I’m sure you’ll be able to find it.”

And with that, the door closed, Post disappearing from view.

Malia looked to Stiles. He took her hand.

Nothing would be the same, Stiles thinks.

(He can only hope the other’s will survive without them there to help.)

(Or… to hinder.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> may never continuuuueeeee-  
> So i got hit by a plot bunny.  
> Now it's back to not existing, oops.  
> 


End file.
